


Radiance

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little gift fic for a dear friend, non explicit and purple prosey sticky, </p><p>  I wish I could do more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Radiance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyofdragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofdragons/gifts).



“And that should do it,” Axe said, stowing the last tool in the carrycase, next to the complicated geometry of the communication ansible.  Wing stepped closer, tapping in the code for the reboot and cache clear, with a nod, then they both turned, looking out over the landscape.  The ansible was on the eastern slope of a mountain, high enough to be above the treeline that cloaked the folds and ridges of terrain down to the valley below.  Above them, the sky was a violet vault, never the full indigo of a planetary night, as the planet’s three moons cast the light of the sun in some measure across the land below.  

It was beautiful, and Wing could feel life, like a fine vibration, under his footplates: he could smell the tang of the trees carried on the wafts of air.

He gave a sigh, the long, slow exhale of air, a release.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Axe said, beside him.  “All Dai Atlas would see is that it isn’t Cybertron.”

“It’s not,” Wing said, evenly.  All the organic life, the curves and tendrils, the asymmetry. It wasn't like Cybertron with its straight planes and sharp angles.  “But even Cybertron isn’t the one we knew anymore.”

A nod, beside him, the larger mech’s stubby flightplanes shifting.”And what has become of those who stayed behind, even those who lived...what lives are they, given over to violence?”

Wing felt something like a pang of guilt, that he was here, on this beautiful, alien world, alive and content, if not happy, and so many were dead, or scarred by war.

“In the war, the old war,” Axe clarified, “I always told myself that I was all right as long as I could see beauty in the world.” He smiled: Wing could see the profile of his mouth stretch into a crescent, almost like one of the moons above. There was an ancient sadness in his voice, as if maybe that hadn't been enough, and Wing felt small and callow and new next to him.

“It would be a terrible thing to lose.” His voice was hesitant, unsure of how to help, how to salve that mute pain in Axe's voice. What would one of the soldiers see looking at this landscape? Probably a battlefield yet to be, resources to be seized, or denied the enemy.  The landscape was a being, a living thing, to them, he thought, not itself, alive and vibrant.

“Worse than death, lad, “Axe said, sagely, his blue optics flicking over to the smaller jet.  “One would be truly dead if one could find no light to guide one.”  

The moment fell, softly, into silence, and they both watched a thin veil of a cloud float over one of the moons.  Wing could feel an eddy of air skim over his body, almost playful, so different from the bland, still air of the ship that awaited them.  He was in no hurry to return to it: he gave a disappointed moue when the reboot sequence pinged behind him, signalling that the ansible was up and working and receiving.  

“We have time,” Axe said, quietly, settling down onto the ground, gesturing Wing to join him. Wing did, entranced by the soft moss underneath him as he folded his legs, puzzled at Axe’s intent.  

He sat, quietly, feeling a fluttering tension build in his chassis, something almost like nerves, but fed from the mountain itself, its crisp air, the organic richness of it.  He heard Axe sigh beside him, a moment before he felt a finger brush his chin, turning his gold optics away from the moonlit mountain slope and up into optics of shining blue.  “You drink it in,” Axe murmured, softly. “I can see it in your face.”  

“It’s beautiful,” Wing said, lamely. It was an understatement, a failure of words.  He blinked, as though breaking a spell. “Why did you bring me?” Axe could have asked anyone to accompany him on this little task. But he’d asked for Wing, by name.  

“Because I expected--hoped--you saw it, too, and sometimes,” the smile on the broad face faltered, for a klik, like an admission, “sometimes faith needs more faith to bolster it, light needs to be kindled from another light.”

“Me?”  He was no light: just one of the lesser knights, small and fast.  Axe had been a captain of the Triorian Guard, a friend of Dai Atlas from the earliest days.  Wing had been a courier, more intent on exploring Cybertron, on dancing on the air currents, than any noble cause. 

A soft laugh, almost the sound of the night itself, and Axe leaned in the blue optics filling his field of vision, until he felt a gentle brush of lips against his: an offering and an invitation. And Wing knew, suddenly, that he could take this as it was: a tribute, an offering and nothing more, a compliment without words.  Or, he could take it as a thread, leading somewhere else into the moonlit darkness.

He’d had lovers before, and he knew Dai Atlas and Axe were more than intimate. They were lovers, partners, conjunx endura in the best sense, perfect matches, complements.  But this was a different thing, born of want rather than need, a kind of love and awed desire that was too big to stay with just one person. Wing pushed up into the kiss, one hand coming behind Axe’s helm, a sound of desire mingling from both of their vocalizers, as their bodies entwined.

It was a beautiful, sacred thing, their bodies moving against each other, hands roaming over the sleek planes of their armor, fingertips seeking out the hidden places where charge built, and then Wing was atop Axe, thighs spread wide over the dark hips, and their bodies surged together, rising to meet each other, mouths echoing each other’s soft cries, feedin on the pleasure, the openness.  They seemed a part of the planet itself, as foreign as they were, and their movement was riding the tide of life that seemed to thrum through the very ground, the plush, redolent air against their frames. It was a fight back against death, against despair, a reminder both needed that they were part of the beauty of life, they were hope embodied.  

The release came,a  slow, shuddering thing, a spill and a clutch, without urgency or desperation, beyond either of them, bigger than either of them, as though everything good and beautiful of their kind was singing through their flared flightpanels.  

WIng slid down, wracked, over Axe’s larger chassis, as though diving into the plushness of his electromagnetic field. He could swear he could feel the throb and pulse of the larger mech’s spark, under the heavy armor, his hand splayed on the electrum plating. Axe's hands curled, reverently, around Wing's back, touching the rib struts like touching something divine, and he could see a kind of rapture in the triple-changer's face, like the moon catching the sun's bright glow, and he realized, in a flash, that this...this was his mission, this was purpose: to be hope and beauty and trust and love, to channel it for those too weak to see it any other way. It was a weight and a lightness, all at once, and he tipped his face to the violet vault of heaven, cut by the symmetry of the ansible, the air sweet and fragrant from their heated lovemaking and the crushed soft moss mingled together, and he opened himself to all of it. All of it. 


End file.
